The City
by demetrapaige
Summary: A young girl and her friend are lost in a world of trouble. A young man and his partner are detectives on the beat the dirty streets of Los Angeles in the 1940s. However, paths cross, and a unique story of fate and intervention strikes up in a life of drugs, jazz, and liquor-a time when everyone had their own vice.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters-Type-Moon does. I'm just writing a story for the characters and hoping that it is entertaining. I am inspired by a lot of media I have been seeing lately, and I wanted to put a twist by introducing my favorite Type-Moon characters into this scenery.

Rating: I'm always going to set it scandalously high just in case the dirty mind takes over during this. Enjoy!

* * *

She was lost in the smell and the sound. There was nothing that could take her from the moment. She was in another world-everything from the day had washed away from her in this moment. She sat at the table and watched the scene play before her.

The large blue room was full of tables with groups or couples at them. Spread throughout that were tiny tables of single people watching. The lighting was low, and the candles on the tables gave quite a bit of light. What wasn't on the tables was lit over by the dance floor. You could see couples swaying to the band, jumping as the horns came in with a thick sound that enticed her. If she hadn't been busy, she would have contemplated asking for a dance on the floor, finding a partner and losing herself in the sounds and atmosphere. She had obligations, and she was fulfilling them.

The bar behind her seat was bustling with people complaining about their day and talking to the bartender, which she preferred to call a paid, in-house psychologist. They were in and out of her attention-the swelling of the band seemed to really give them a moment of silence in between their complaints. they almost faded in and out of her, giving a weird cacophony in her head. The smoke in the room made everything a haze and fog against the navy blue of the walls. It almost seemed like a foggy night. She drifted in, imagining the dark of the night, and the sounds accompanying her travels down a dark road. She wished to be there.

The man across from her seemed to make sounds-his mouth moving, but nothing was entering her mind. Finally, she came to after the red head lightly touched her hand. The warmth of his hands seemed to bring her back towards the dream, pulling her away from the image in her mind. The young red head had grasped her attention, slowly she began to focus in on the golden eyes that were staring back at her.

"Are you hearing me?"

_Obviously not...How are you so thick? _

"No. Sorry. I was listening to the song..." She hadn't lied to him, but she hadn't the courage to tell him that she was just bored with him. He hadn't really been saying much that was useful to her at the time. Although they had been childhood friends, she couldn't help but be annoyed. All he ever wanted to talk about was work, and he consistently just complained about those that he worked with.

_What am I supposed to be doing? I can't make your job any better. You have to do it... Complaining doesn't help anything..._

The young girl smirked before she gently reached in her purse, pulling out a small cigarette case. After she lit the cigarette, the band on stage finished their set. The horns, set, and singer began to file off stage, heading to the bar to get their money for the evening's performance.

_No doubt they didn't earn much..._

The club was rather empty for the evening. There weren't too many people to be expected at a jazz club on a Wednesday. Most of the patrons would start the weekend tomorrow. Tonight tended to be a sort of down night for regulars before the weekend players rolled into the clubs. She couldn't help but giggle-she had to have some respect for people who ran these sort of establishments. They relied purely upon people needing to have something extra. Something they shouldn't-no, couldn't-get anywhere else. This jazz was infectious. It was sweeping the nation-a drug that no one was turning down. Once it gone in your blood, you were hooked for life, traveling from club to club to hear the sounds of the horns and voice. They enticed you and seduced you into never leaving, making you forget everything about the day and world around you-a blissful release.

_Something I enjoy about the business. _

Whether she liked it or not, she was born for this. She had the means, and she had the attitude for what she was doing. There was nothing other than people and merchandise for her. A wicked smile crossed her lips-something that always bothered her younger partner.

_Partner is a very nice word for what he is..._

The young girl watched as the band filed out towards the green room and dressing rooms of the bar. Clearly, they were done with cashing their checks and were heading to the back. The girl got up out of the chair-a sight that always amazed the red-haired accomplice. She looked dazzling, and you would never think of the personality she had being hidden in such an angelic body. The delicate but very female body got up from the table and began walking towards the area where the band had just crossed. The air was gentle around her, almost sweet and graceful. The red head got up and followed the figure, shaped perfectly in her tight,red dress. The outfit was always very complimentary to her. She wore a beautiful red dress with black heels, a black jacket, and elbow long black gloves while her hair was curled and tied behind her head in the typical popular style of the time.

He followed behind her, keeping his distance close. Although she could handle herself, there was no way that a gal should get too far in a club like this. With ease, she passed into the back-security didn't even take a second look at her.

The young girl sauntered, ready for this day to be over with. She wanted to rest for the evening. She longed for a hot, relaxing bath at her home. Carefully, she opened the door of the green room where the jazz band was sitting. They were all expecting her. They watched her as she walked to a large table in the center of the room-a simple suitcase in the center of the table. The briefcase opened slowly and quietly, revealing its stock.

"Premium, army-grade morphine, my friends. Better than what you are used to, and you'll never want to go back to what you had before..." The girl had a devilish grin. The red haired accomplice watched as the leader of the band-a tall, bronzed woman with long dark hair-came to his companion and handed her an envelope.

Gratitude was exchanged, and the girl turned on her heels before leaving. The band knew how to get ahold of her, and she wasn't too worried. They were going to buy again, and she knew it. She sauntered out of the room and to her right, passing the people beginning to clean up after the club had closed for the evening. A sharp turn to her right, and she left through a door into the alley. The weather was dark, and it was beautiful. There was a bite to the air, but nothing that was unbearable. It was comfortable. Perfect for this large city.

There her accomplice separated from her, heading towards his parked car while she grabbed a cab-they never took long. Who would pass up this young beauty?

"Night, Rin. Be careful."

She giggled. He was always so innocent...so aware of the job they had.

"Good night, Emiya... Take care."

She had been left alone for so long in her life-a hefty inheritance had come her way after the loss of both her parents. They had left her so young. She had attended a private school until high school, where she went to a public school. As much as she had hated it, the decision had been out of necessity. Her private school was disagreeing with her temperament, demanding that she had to stick to a church and leading that lifestyle-that had never been something for Rin Tohsaka to consider, so she had left them when she no longer needed them.

There she had met a large arrangement of people throughout her schooling-most did not like her. However, this one had always stuck around: Emiya Shirou. He had always been very kind to her, having needed someone to look after him. When she was the "new kid", he had always made it a point to take care of her and make her feel welcome. Even after she had left high school and sought to be on her own, he kept popping up in places. She didn't understand why, but she didn't fight it. At least he understood her policies and need for privacy. She couldn't deny the necessity of that, and he had seemed to adapt to her lifestyle quite easily.

With her luck, she had to wait even less today. A man was getting into a cab as she neared the corner, and he gave it up. The man opened the door, and, with a bow, gave it to her for the evening. With a gentle thank you, Rin got into the car as he shut the door behind her. As she gave her address, a newspaper in the seat caught her attention.

_That man probably set it in here before he intended to get into it. What does it say? _

"_January 21, 1946. Veterans return home to a new world after WWII."_

She giggled to herself

_Indeed. It is a new world..._

With that, Rin watched out the window as the beautiful lights and sounds of LA passed through her eyes, reminding her of the beautiful city's intoxicating life style.


	2. Chapter 2

The rain poured, beating against the glass as he sat there. The alarm would go off in a few minutes. It was another night of waking up before the alarm without any real reason why. He hadn't enjoyed it, but he had gotten used to it. The storm was nice to focus on during all of this. There was something comforting about hearing it. Even though he wanted to be slightly annoyed about it, something gave him comfort in the rhythm of the rain.

He laid there—arms tucked behind his head as he watched the rain beat against the window. The slight light of the outside and the lightening would give an interesting dance of shadows across his bed and bare, brown chest. He was watching them dance as the alarm began to sound. With a quick motion he outstretched his right arm, without looking, and turned off the alarm. The sound stopped, and silence seeped back into the room.

Thoughts crossed through his mind, remembering a great amount of the past. There were parts that he had come across in the story of his life he wouldn't talk about. A blonde he couldn't save and watched slip into eternity. A wound that still hadn't seemed to heal.

_Isn't the only scar I have ever carried in my life…_

Instinctively, he ran his hand over his hear—a light pink scar stood out on the skin of the browned man. It laid directly over his heart. A reminder of where he came from. He had been a young boy who had come to California with his father in the hopes of a better life. Heck, the man hadn't even been his father. He didn't know who his real parents were. They had died on the way to get from the Midwest to California. He had been taken in by a guy who found a young kid about to die in the slums of LA, begging for food from any stranger he could find. The man took him in, gave him a home, and gave him a name.

_Detective "Kerry" Emiya_…

He had called the man Dad for the majority of his life until the kid was older. The Detective had led a rough life before that point, losing everything he had ever held dear to him—his wife and child. However, he had been a very good father while he was alive.

One day, the kid came home to find a man in black fighting in the dark with his dad. The man shot Kerry and ran out, noticing the kid. He turned back around and shot at the boy. The cops came. Kerry had died after calling the police, but the boy was lucky. Somehow, they were able to get the bullet. It had barely missed his heart. However, the scar never healed from the surgeries that they had performed. He would never be able to forget that night. He lost everything and gained a weight that he could never physically get rid of.

_So, you became a cop…_

Such an idealist… He had just wanted to prevent his story from ever happening again. He just wanted to erase it from existence. There was nothing else to it.

_No one else should ever have this sort of life. _

A small sigh slipped from his lips as he finally pushed himself up. The morning routine was pretty repetitive, but it was necessary. He walked towards the bathroom, running a shower and standing in it. It seemed to take longer than usual to motivate himself out of the shower—the warmth was comforting and peaceful. He knew that his day was going to be hectic, and this small nirvana was a comfort to him. He slugged out, drying himself off, and wrapping a towel around his waist before walking to the closet in his bedroom.

Here was something that he enjoyed—his clothes. He wasn't a big one about fashion, but he had worked hard for what he had. There hadn't been much in his life money-wise, and he appreciated every dollar that he had. Quietly, he picked out a suit: black slacks, shoes, jacket, tie, and vest with a red dress shirt. A quiet walk into his kitchen and he started on his breakfast and coffee—a small thing of coffee, eggs, and toast. Before he sat down, he made his way to the front door, picking up a newspaper and then beginning his breakfast.

_Not this again…_

"_Killer Strikes Again in LA. City in Fear."_

"This day is going to be longer than I thought. A city in fear? They aren't running down the streets screaming for anything. Their best bet is to keep their mouths shut and lock the doors, staying inside."

He was annoyed. The Press always wanted to just jump on any story or scandal that they could during their print week. They weren't exactly the most reputable people either. There had been a fair share of breaks where cops and press got arrested with their hands dirtier in the same soil. It was never pretty, but they liked to parade around like they were the paragon of truth. It was damn right annoying, and he hated it.

A quick glance at the clock showed that it was 7:30, and he needed to be heading to work. A large bookshelf stood directly to the side of his front door—on it were the contents of his job, thrown off in a hurry as he had come home for the evening.

He picked up the holster and put it on, checking the Colt before sliding it into its resting spot. A final look, and he put his badge into his pocket.

_Badge Number 1394: Archer Emiya_.

The man grabbed his solid black fedora and trench coat before heading outside into the rain.

He couldn't help it. It was the life that he led. He was exhausted, but there wasn't much else he could do about it. It had been another late night of watching the streets, tailing someone that was of interest.

_Why can't people do things earlier in the day?_

He preferred to enjoy his time off at home in bed, rather than out on the streets doing work. Even the places that he enjoyed going to in order to relax often had him there for work some times.

_I asked for this..._

He had a smile, but he couldn't help it. He was kicking back in his small office, shared with only his partner. The one room somehow held a heater, a window (directly behind him), a coat rack, two desks face to face, their chairs, and two filing cabinets. It was somewhere that was cozy small for him, and they were higher up. He liked both of those facts. However, his partner felt crowded in the room. He couldn't help it. The tall man with his blue hair-always combed and held back with pomade that smelled of fruit-would get frustrated and have to step out, especially during a tough case. As much as his partner and he were different, he couldn't deny that they pushed each other and worked well.

As the devil himself heard him, his partner entered the room hanging his black fedora on the coat rack, slinging his brown trench coat on the rack afterwards. A deep sigh heaved from him.

"It's raining so hard out there. I'd rather not do a god damned thing if we could prevent it. I don't want to leave the damned office."

_Of course you don't, but I hate to tell you that the Chief has other plans..._

"Too bad. A body was found this morning-a sap in an alleyway. Chief said for us to head over first thing in the morning."

The groan was almost instantaneous. He couldn't help but laugh. His partner looked at him as he delicately handed him the file—a subtle smirk coming across his face. Lancer didn't like it. He knew that it wasn't a smirk out of malice—it was out of irony. Lancer had just happened to say that some work shouldn't have come in, but it was sitting right there for him. As if there was a big grin on God's face made just to annoy Lancer.

"Lancer, here is the file, or would you rather that I brief you on the way over there?" He sat behind the desk with his feet up on the desk, watching the reaction of his partner.

Lancer may have hated it, but his partner was always right. What made it worse was the fact that he was such an...angel. It was just sickening. The bronzed man stood up, slicking his hair before he put on the black fedora that hung on the coat rack. Everything matched. He had a solid black suit with a red under shirt and a white tie-all of this hidden by the black trench coat he put on. The damned guy had every female who saw him wanting a piece of him, but he just couldn't take the time to have them. He always claimed that his job didn't leave time for the gals falling for him.

"Just fill me in on the clues as we drive, Archer. I'll drive to make it easier..." The scorn in his voice was so thick you could almost cut it with a knife.

The two slowly made their way out of the office and down the three flights that it took to get to the main exit. They were at the highest of the floors, where the LAPD housed their Homicide Unit. As much as his partner hated it (Lancer had dreams of one day working vice-not solving murders), Archer loved it. He had spent his entire life wanting to solve murders. Homicide was his beat, and he couldn't help it. It only pissed off his partner even more with each successful case.

When they reached the exit to the parking lot, Archer could see the reason that he was complaining. It was pouring. It was almost too much to not think that a flood was going to seize the city it was hard outside. It was almost pitch black as well. He followed his partner, leading to his beautiful navy blue car. The white rimmed tires only made it look better. It was a beautiful '46 Ford that had just come off the line not too long ago. It suited Lancer. When he looked at it, Archer could only see the image of Lancer picking up girls and taking them around. It almost seemed to perfect of an image.

The drive was not going to be too long. The Blue Club was was not too far from the office. It was surprising for him that crimes didn't seem to care that they were so close to the department, but Archer didn't figure that criminals really cared to not get caught.

"The deceased is a 26 year old African-American male. He was found this morning in the alleyway by the crew that opens the club as they headed towards the back door for work. He was laying on his back in the alleyway. Chief said the rest of the details would be given to us by O'Hara when we went to the crime scene."


	3. Chapter 3

There was something alluring about her-the way she had a grace about her just sitting in the circular booth. Really, she couldn't be anything harmless, but there was something about her that said she could chew any man up and spit him back out.

_It is the way that she carries herself_...

There was an air about her that just said, "Don't mess with me", and he couldn't help but be enticed. The jazz sored, and the tension in the room was palpatible. Everyone was there looking for the same thing-something to help them forget. Whether he liked it or not, he was there for the same thing.

_She has to be there for the same thing too_...

As she sat, seemingly alone (which seemed like a crime), a young red-head came up and sat beside her. He talked, but it didn't seem as if she had paid much attention to the younger man. In fact, he couldn't help but notice that she had seemed to be completely out of it while the man spoke. He felt a slight sigh of relief-he hadn't wanted to imagine that this beauty-this fantasy-had someone to look after her already.

It was sickening to watch for him. He was invested in the stunning girl that he had only seen from across the club. She was even less likely to talk to him if he really tried to interact with her. However, he watched as the young man finally touched her hand, and he saw the jolt that went through her. Although it wasn't a stellar reaction, the interaction had enough of an effect on him.

Truth be told. It was rare that he found himself even remotely invested in a girl. It wasn't that he wasn't interested in them...They just always seemed to be distractions, and he wanted to get higher up in his job. He didn't want it to be dangerous. The last thing he wanted was to settle down with a girl and have it go south because he got shot on the job-or even worse, she got hurt because she was tied to him.

A deep grunt came out of his own mouth, almost like a snicker. The thought always crossed his mind. He had heard of some thugs that were so ruthless in Vice that they had killed some of their detectives' family members as a threat-a warning that they weren't to be messed with. The Vice that had stuck around were often single guys that had no one around to stake their name on, and they still suffered. Hicks had been found dead in his own apartment, and he had done nothing but stop a small popcorn stand from selling heroin on the side.

_He had messed with the wrong dealer though. The guy thought that he was a King of the city, and he wasn't going to let a cop get in the way of that._

Even though he wasn't Vice, he knew it was a problem. He had to stop serial killers, random acts of violence, or acts that were death stemming from people in the drug traffic. He couldn't even count the amount of times that he had stumbled across a murder scene that ultimately be traced back to someone being involved with drugs somehow. In fact, it had almost been the answer about 40% of the time in the case. It was terrifying how big of a deal this was getting to be. Soon, there would be no real line between Vice and Homicide—they would just blur together. He was going to be brushing elbows with the people that had caused him so many problems over the years.

_What am I doing here anyways?_

It was not something that could easily be answered. He was here because it had been a rough day. The dark stranger with beautiful white hair had seen his share of things today. His partner, Lancer, had gotten into an argument with the head of the Vice investigations—a young man named Gil. They had never seen eye-to-eye, Archer and Gil, but Lancer wasn't even looking in the same universe.

There had been a young African-American male found dead in an alleyway, but it had gotten to be a sticky situation.

_Sticky is the nicest way that I can put it_.

The kid—he wasn't much older than Archer himself, but it felt like he was too young—had been selling and dealing drugs beside his stint in a bar as a janitor. In fact, it was a new drug that had just begun to cause a problem in the city.

_Army grade morphine_…

He hadn't found it remotely interesting until they started to explain how detrimental it was, and what the addiction was doing to everyone. The drug had stayed under the radar for the young detective, and he couldn't help but be annoyed by it. He knew that Army grade anything didn't just _happen_ to be around a city for sale. Someone had a large stash of it, and that someone was selling to everyone that they could. The streets were flooded with it, and the Vice was swimming in cases. In fact, Archer heard that there were a dozens of guys and gals showing up on the mortuary's slabs due to overdoses or skirmishes over the drug. And, this case was no different.

The young guy wasn't the supplier. He was just a small time seller for another seller, so on and so forth. It was a weird hierarchy that people seemed to just…follow without asking any questions. It was surprising to him that no one seemed to care about the fact that they didn't know the main person over all of this. Vice described the main person as a terrifying and cold person who didn't seem to care about anyone besides themselves. They were out to make money over the morphine, and they were taking down anyone and everything with them—as long as they could still cash a check and pay their bills. This person seemed downright ruthless.

Archer despised that kind of person, and Lancer liked the idea even less. Lancer had seen war, and he had seen the atrocities of World War II. He had talked about it to Emiya a few times, drunk obviously, but he had never really heard him talk about the good things. Gil had happened to be there (since morphine was involved, Vice was called to the scene to see if they had any insight), making a comment about how it was an ingenious business plan.

"I don't see why they should care about the people that they are selling to. Once you have someone hooked, they will keep coming back until they are dead. In fact, it is better off that they don't care. They would be better to just keep giving the masses as much saturated content as they can. It is better than making it trickle. Their business is money, not life."

Lancer had went off. There was nothing more meaningful to him than living. He had seen camps—he had seen what had happened to boys and girls—men and women—without any thought during the war. He had reacted, throwing Gil against a wall and pressing him against it. The worst part had to be the look on Gil's face. The man had a pristine appearance. He had crimson eyes set against ivory skin and beautiful blonde hair—he was opulence of the 40s personified. Archer had never liked him either. He always knew that Gil got away with whatever he wanted because he had connections, and the fact that he was so well met with money and gifts—it was just disgusting. He hated it.

Lancer screamed at him about the precious necessity of life and caring for those around you. He saw families lose everything. He had seen the internment camps, and he knew the evil of the idea that Gil praised so much—people disregarding others as actual people. It was sickening to his stomach; however, Archer spent his time pulling his partner off of Gil; a gentle reminder that causing Gil problems right now would cause Lancer problems in the long run. He was better off just waiting and talking to him at another time in another place.

Gil smirked before he straightened himself up, pulling away from Lancer with a smirk on his face.

"You shouldn't have done…However, your partner has sense. You should just save yourself and spend it on this case. If you care so much, help the dead find their way into their graves…"

Although they had hated it, Gil was right. They had a job to do, and they were wasting their time. They just had to go and get this poor boy home in more ways than one.

It hadn't taken long. The traces were pretty obvious, but it was still a case. The guy had been trying to make a deal, and something had gone wrong. They had found that his friend was a pretty bad addict and had a strong itch for the stuff. When his friend wasn't feeling up to just giving him the drugs for free, he had simply killed him, stabbed him to death. It was just sad. They had been childhood friends, and the victim had introduced his friend to it. The guy was starving for some sort of fix, and he couldn't get it anywhere. They had found him at his friend's apartment—dead by the very thing that he had loved so much. He had overdosed in the early hours of the morning, probably due to the drugs that he had stolen from his friend.

The detectives had talked to the family and informed them of all the facts of the case. It had broken the families of both boys—they had known each other for so many years because of the kids. What made it worse was that they didn't hold it against each other. They sat in the car, silent for a small time.

"This morphine stuff needs to go away as fast as it can. Vice needs to crack that case…" Archer was being hopeful. This wasn't going to go off the streets tomorrow, and the long term effects weren't going to stop for anyone in just a day. People were going to be affected for the rest of their lives, and he hated it.

"They aren't going to, especially if it makes them a penny. I don't think that Vice has actually eradicated a drug in a long time. Instead, they get in with the people supplying it. They get rid of the people stupid enough to get caught—not the people that can give them the perks of anonymity when it comes to their own habits… You know that is why Gil still has his job. Otherwise, he would have been gone a long time ago, but he has made himself useful to them—that is what you need to do in Vice to keep your job. People like you—people with ideals—they don't survive like that. They get buried in their ideals. They die because of their ideals if they don't realize what the world is."

Archer heaved a heavy sigh. His ideals were always a topic of discussion for Lancer during a case. Archer was very worried that he would never get passed this issue. Every case seemed to make it a big deal that he had an idealistic hope for the world around him.

Lancer hadn't lasted much longer in the office after the case was closed. It was so cut and dry that the paperwork was pretty much speaking for itself. Really, he had cut out right after they had gotten back, grabbing his cigarettes and some things from his desk before leaving. Archer had done as usual, offering to stay later to finish the work. Lancer hadn't said much of anything and just donned his fedora, leaving with absolutely nothing but silence. It had really hurt him to see everything bother him so much, but it had been a pretty rough day.

After had finished, he couldn't really handle the pressure of everything, and he really didn't want to go home to an empty house after this. A small pack of matches laid on Lancer's desk with the title "Blue Club" etched on it.

_Why not?_

He had grabbed everything, going out into the rain and hailing a cab. It had taken too long, but he was as guy in a big city.

_I bet a billion girls get cabs before me…_

There was a silence in the cab as they drove towards the club—the newspaper harassed him out of the corner of his eyes. He hadn't been to clubs in a long time, but there was a pleasantry to everyone being in a small space, enjoying music. They all were here because they needed something, and they liked it. The jazz was tight, and everyone was there under the same feeling—it was nice to be joined by the same emotion in the room.

That was how he got here…

By the time he had stopped remembering everything, he had noticed that the boy was getting up from the table with the girl. The liquor had made himself a little more brazen than usual. He would have admired her from afar otherwise, but he had to have the dream of meeting her. He wanted to try this, so he stood up, cupping his brandy in hand. He walked towards the table, watching as her eyes slowly drifted up and connected with his. There was some sort of interest in her eyes, begging for something that would intrigue her.

"Would you care for a dance?" He sat the glass down on the table before extending his hand out to help her out of her seat. He had a full expectation that she was going to reject him. However, there was a nice nod from her head as she took his hand. As he pulled her up, a whirl of her passed him and brought something to his nostrils—a dear smell of jasmine and spice. She had something intriguing about her. She began almost pulling him towards the floor, and he was under her spell, following her absent-mindedly. There was something powerful that she had, and he liked it.

The dance was full of something passionate. They never really said anything. It was a contest to pull the other farther. No one else had mattered in that moment. It was a constant attempt to try to win. Something was beautiful about how they demanded each other. They hadn't even known each other, but they had pulled at each other as if they needed every second—as if the only air they had to survive off of was each other's. A slight sweat had formed between them before the last move of the dance, where he crashed her into his body, running his hand up her neck and into her hair. There was absolutely no one else to cross their minds. Archer pulled her in, and his lips crashed against hers—this beauty of a girl with pearl skin, dark hair, and ocean deep eyes.

He felt her pulling at him and deepening the kiss. Her tongue collided with his, and he tasted her—something so sweet that he never wanted to stop tasting it. He felt a smile cross his face, and he felt something else. The young girl grabbed delicately at his vest, reaching into his coat.

"Come home with me…" She tugged mercilessly at his shirt, begging him to stay with her.

He never answered, he sealed his mouth against her before she grabbed him and began to lead him to the street.


End file.
